


Philetor

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Codependency, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, Intensive Mothering, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 14:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: The most desirable youths are not the exceptionally handsome ones, but rather those who are distinguished. Like Mitch.





	Philetor

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Berfrois: the grandstand raised a story above the stands where the noble people of the host country would sit.  
> Cheverse: a mistress, sometimes a noblewoman.  
> Javelle: a rascal.  
> Leman: an illicit lover  
> Misdeme: To misjudge or give trust / a credibility in error.  
> Yonder: an indicated place
> 
> Final draft was not Beta'd so. This may be a minefield. I do give out lots of love to my bestie, Jiggy, who read the original draft (willingly I may add) despite it having more plotholes than swiss cheese.

****London is nothing like dear Erie or Niagara. The muggy climate invites weary travellers in like a warm glass of ale. On that comparison, the town boasts a bigger drunken population than it does the common merchant or blacksmith. Bonnie learns early that the streets are no place for a queen at early morn.

Still, her duties override any caution her mind regurgitates. Travelling caravans enter and exit the palace grounds, the staff inside working themselves into a scurry. She is up to her nape in calligraphic letters to send on behalf of her kingdom. Sleep becomes a luxury few can afford.

Her stomach quakes. She partakes only in small, fine food supplied by her servants. They keep her alive and well so that she may mark ink strokes on paper.

Her predicament is not helped by the four layers of garments weighing on her back. Her smock is damp from the sweat on her back, her petticoat tangled. The kirtle contains so many wrinkles it rides up her hips and her gown is all that remains to keep her looking decorated.

She expects her maids are in to sweep when she hears the doors first slam. Her room needs sweeping. To her, the whole palace is a wreck of severed chicken heads and crusted blood. Cleaning it of filth is no easy feat, as she finds. In order to play the part of hospitable host she loses touch with anything not stamped with wax.

“Mother?” Mitch’s voice carries through the halls, helped by the tapestries that flutter and push it toward her. “I’m going down to the range with Connor and Dylan.”

The trench she’s dug for herself is filled immediately. No work quota overrides the need to answer to her son’s whims.

Her neck pops as she rears her head up. “So soon?”

His head pokes in, a light sweat puckering its lips over his cheeks and forehead. “I know you are busy preparing for the betrothal party, so there’s no need to accompany me.”

“Such nonsense,” her hand fans out, “I will always have time for you, my son.” She appreciates the opportunity to leave her quarters, if only until mid-day. It will be good reuniting with Connor and Dylan. The last time she saw them in the flesh was during their engagement.

She goes to stand in her chair only to have her son push her down into the cushion.

“Mother, I insist. Stay here and get some rest. You look green in the face.”

His smile invokes a migration of butterfly wings inside of her. She returns the look with vigour.

“I am fine. If anything, it’s this work that is making me ill.”

She knows better than to let him run off; to not keep a tight fist on Mitch is to toss him to the scavengers below. It takes little time to collect her belongings and tidy her face, walking side by side her son down the spiralling stairs.

On the way, they stop by the blacksmith to collect nails for the great hall and forage the armoury for supplies. Mitch ducks under the shroud separating the forge and reappears with his copper sword in hand. He holds it tight like his own personal security blanket, even despite its chips and dents after years of use.

She never anticipated they would create a strong bond together. For Mitch’s tenth birthday, she planned to commission a blade of ebony from the neighbouring kingdom of Edmonton. Their work involves a level of detail lusted after by the thousands. Her alliance with them continues on beyond generations and yet, she stalls on the makings of her first request because her boy asked for copper instead.

It was her firstborn, Christopher, that gave her the idea for ebony. He had wanted one the second he’d seen Cameron McDavid’s own and the craftsmanship involved in the making. Both of them were so young that simply holding the shaft made them totter back and forth.

Christopher had begged her long into the eve for a present like it while she’d steadied one hand on her protruding stomach. All demands would cease when the second baby kicked and he’d beg to rub the bump. At the time, she’d stuck her nose up in the air, dropped the pair of needles she’d been working with and ruffled his fluffy brown hair. Chris would be a wonderful brother and a terrible sword player; which is why she does not fulfill his request for the sword.

Midwives told her that the second baby would be lucky to survive; it was all the more reason to invest all her time and resources into her firstborn. She called the second boy Mitchell, after her great-grandfather. She hoped he would be a fighter, just like the powerful warlord who exists in the depths of their bloodline.

But time has a tragic way of twisting itself into knots. One minute, the baby in her stomach is choked by its own umbilical cord while the living one runs the fields in nothing but his simple sandals and a loose tunic, and the next she’s given birth to a healthy, although small, boy while her firstborn coughs up tuberculosis. The smell alone permeates in the room like garlic, vomit mixing with blood tonic in every flavour as he heaves through a cold sweat.

Christopher dies never having seen his little brother: the nuns fearing the contaminate pathogens reeking throughout the small quarters they’d quarantined him to. His little body did not fit a burial box even with his tiny little knuckles and ankles alike straightened. At death, she could still see the red indent on his thumb where he would suck the skin pink as they buried him in a shallow grave under shovels of dirt, worms, and fleas.

For the remainder of that year, she breastfeed the baby through drapes of black as she stayed confined to grief. Her husband fell victim to cholera and she heaved up her morning meals to the rhythm of his sputtering. Her eyes became a puffy, swollen dam that collected tears. She held her baby close.

It took her years to own up to the grief and muster the courage to walk the graveyard where they buried him. Christopher’s small body was so out of place within the sea of deceased noblemen. The jesters’ and pleasures of the court’s graves birthed pretty little flowers that swayed in the wind while Chris’ grave remained as infertile as it was the day they’d planted him.

And then, there is Mitch. He is everything Christopher is not. His limbs are spindly and his nose is hooked like his father’s. His mouth dominates the presence of his face and she watches him closely whenever he yawns because she can hear the joints pop and click because of it. Other mothers call him a runt; Mitch doesn’t measure up in comparison to the well-bred princes plummeting through their mother’s bellies and into a world bowing before their feet.

She drowns her baby in glamour, as much as she can afford. Her boy spends his youth learning to ride horses, fighting with swords of every shape and size and then travelling home and practicing manners at the table with her. She forbids him to learn military strategy like his father did. Mitch would instead spend his time by his tutor, learning a multitude of languages and negotiation tactics she could never hope to mimic.

Other queens say she will turn him soft. They are demons she cannot banish. She smiles over the lip of her cup and denies it. No use picking fights with ladies who vulture on the signs of weakness. Their boys can do no wrong but they are not Mitch. They will lead thousands by ferocity, but Mitch will lead by example.

Now, Mitch continues to get practice at swordplay. The copper swords he wields now will pale in comparison to the new ebony blade she will gift at the end of the week to formally commemorate his engagement. She figures it is time for him to stop holding onto the past and respect her future decisions, for they will bring him happiness.

Her kingdom rejoices when she announces the news. Her lineage will succeed in lands familiar to the commoners. And what a land too. A place of snow and cold; like London, but far grander. There, gods cease to rest. The blood of the people is enriched by decades, if not centuries of hard work.

Toronto is the envy of the world. Her son will be the one to claim it.

 

Frost peppers the moor. There’s a subtle chill in the air that rustles the bonnets of the women watching the princes scramble for victory. Bonnie warms herself in the light of the sun, hands fiddling with the stitching on her dress.

On his command, the central ridge of Mitch’s blade wavers and splices the seams of the dummy’s white arms. He tosses an arm up and the blade follows in a column before succumbing to momentum and hitting the surface again. A splash of hay scatters the ledge, nearly hitting Mitch in the process.

Like the reeds growing on a riverbank, he sways, bends, and strikes. A sucking noise bellows from the mud as he backs up, the greasy brown colour painting his feet copper as evidence of his exploration. If he has any hope of returning indoors, he would need to find a deeper bank of the riverbank and rinse himself there.

Bonnie feels her fingers tremble as her eyes pull away from the source of the action. Still, it sabotages her senses and she’s compelled cheer his efforts. Her voice overpowers both Connor’s and Dylan’s in magnitude. Both of them stand nearby her, wearing a thick coat of sweat from their own practice. Her nose wrinkles at the musky scent.

She only looks down for a second to adjust where her pendent has slipped between her cleavage. That is all it takes.

When she looks back a new figure has entered the scene, wandering dangerously close her son. The man banner proclaims a thick fury, lined with thin pelts that explode the tendrils of red.

He could be built for both calligraphy or fighting. His shoulders and arms are sculpted from years’ worth of training and his legs likely mirror the same, which does nothing to reassure Bonnie. However, the little details of his face make it look kind and his hands appear delicate enough to perform even the most complex of strokes on paper.

The surprise introduction hits Mitch abruptly. As he turns around to address the stranger his damp feet give out from underneath him and he falls back ungracefully. An arm shoots out to clench Mitch’s waist before his backside hits the short grass. The ground gushes and squelches with the surplus of weight. Panting, Mitch looks down at what has kept him half-standing and can muster only a confused head-tilt at the golden skin that in no way resembles the peach tone of the London natives.

Whoever it is, they are entertained by his slip and afford a laugh at his struggle. Bonnie tilts his chin up to get a better look and feels her heart rate pick up again as an unfamiliar face came into view, one with neatly-combed black locks and sun-kissed skin. Only the southern aristocrats that come into good breeding get such traits and as her mind search for memories of the man she realizes she cannot. He is a stranger, possibly from a hostile tribe.

Mitch’s legs move faster than his head, forgetting the arm clamped around his waist like a vice. He ends up slipping forward again and the man’s arm tightens enough to keep him in place. The position Mitch is in gives him no protection of his back and if the man was holding a weapon, a knife per se, then he would be helpless to defend himself.

Bonnie hears the few words spoken, muffled by the blood rushing through his ears. She trudges through the mud toward them as if led by a halter.

“Who are you?” Mitch asks, one arm tucked against his stomach.

“My title is Sir Matthews, if it pleases you,” the man responds, the name rolling off his tongue with ease.

“Matthews,” Mitch stumbles, his tongue unable to match the intricacies. The intruder’s look softens and he performs a slight bow that barely sees his back twist more than a few inches.

“But for you, my name is Auston, since I know how your kind struggle with the consonants.”

“Auston,” he repeats, the new name comes with ease. Matthews’ chin rises with pride and he takes a tentative step forward.

“I apologize if I spooked you. I had been travelling and noticed you in swordplay and could not help but observe. You are very talented.”

“Among my people, not so much, but I appreciate your kindness,” Mitch says, the tension in his shoulders withering away as they exchange simple talk.

Bonnie stands up straight until her spine jingles with a phantom pain. “Mitch works very hard and I’m glad to see you appreciate his efforts.” She raises her voice loud enough to be heard.

She snaps the intricate spindle of thread binding her son to the boy. She knows, because the man’s posture strains once more and he regards her with the distaste one might associate with seeing a sickly bird moulting in the bush.

“I assume you are Queen Marner?”

“I am.”

“Good. I was wondering if you might direct me towards the capital. I am afraid the sights of London, while mesmerizing, are rather confusing to navigate.”

“The capital is closed off for the festival I am afraid. Unless you are a participant?” she trails off, eyeing the knife sheath again warily. Matthews must notice, because he drops his right hand in front to hide the bump from sight.

“I am,” he replies, “but I mean no harm to you. No offence to your people, but the maps you craft are far too cluttered, so we have been looking for inhabitants inside the border that could show us.”

“Us?” Bonnie asks, looking from side to side. Matthews straightens his back and lifts his left hand to gesture with a concise flick of his wrist. The greenery erupts with a dozen men on horseback, some armed, but others robed with fabrics of many shades of red to signify their riches.

None of them make any move to charge, but the hairs on the back of Bonnie’s neck still stand on end.

“My people,” Matthews explains upon seeing Bonnie’s winded look. “We come every annum for the gathering. Early, to be sure.”

“Oh, you are from Arizona!” Mitch says, the pieces falling into place. The blood red fanfare can only belong to the southern nation: no other is as bold.

Bonnie memory provides her with the few images she’s seen in storybooks of Phoenix’s land: a barren land that endures a sweltering heat day by day. The people are said to be crafty and strong at the expense of consideration for others. Everything Matthews appears not from a first glance.

“Yes,” Matthews replies, “this will be my first year participating as my mother is ill. My inexperience is, unfortunately, the reason I am speaking to you now.” A blush dusts the ends of his ears, but Bonnie still wouldn’t describe him as bashful. He looks too sure of himself to be at fault.

Mitch, bless his heart, rises to the challenge,

“Well luckily for you, it is not far. You see the summit?” He points behind Matthews at the mountains tinted blue in the distance. “It is just beyond the greenery here. If you follow the rock ledges there is a path that will take you to London by mid-day and Toronto by eve, if that suits you.”

“It does, thank you. Are you coming?” Matthews asks, eyebrows raised enough to show off his boyish looks.

Mitch’s commitment quivers. He visibly steps away from Bonnie in order to lean in close to Matthews.

“I am afraid that my guardian will worry if I wander off from this point,” he whispers. He believes he is being quiet enough to avoid suspicion, but his excitement blurs his secrecy.

Matthews decks his head in, to share the mystery. “Do you not attend the festival?”

“I used to for training, but those days are long gone. Now, I am a spectator for the London crown.”

The convenient omittance of his engagement makes Dylan visibly uncomfortable from where he stands beside Bonnie. She feels the same.

“You used to fight?” Matthews prods. Mitch bites the corner of his lip and peers up from under his eyelids.

“In a manner of speaking, I still do, but I am unneeded now.”

“Why, you should come with me. We have already gotten to know each other so well.”

The toxic, unappreciative disrespect sinks into Bonnie’s skin. Her son is still young and requires a stool to mount his horse. Who is this stranger to make decisions without consulting her first?

“I am unsure,” Mitch says, although he knows very well what the answer will be judging by how he pivots his body towards his mother.

“I’m afraid Mitch is preoccupied with arranging the festivities, although it is very kind of you to offer,” Bonnie intervenes. “I trust with the new directions you will be able to find your way north?”

Matthews nods. “I shall. Thank you dearly, both of you, for your consideration. Sir Marner, I look forward to reuniting with you on the palace grounds.”

The man turns on his heel and walks away with quick little strides, like the chirping of bluebirds.

Bonnie huffs loud enough for Mitch to overhear and comment on. “Oh do not worry mother, he’s a gentleman. I hope you’re ready to meet many more like him with the gathering.”

“I know my intuition like how a tiger knows its stripes and he’s a big fraud,” Dylan says. He’s chewing on a cane of sugar imported overseas from a plantation he and his family now own. It’ll do wonders to his teeth in easy time but Dylan’s not the kind to take a measure of those things until he’s sobbing into Connor’s pillow.

“Hush, we’ve still got until supper to train and I hope to make the best of it without you squabbling,” Mitch says. He steps forward to distance himself from the forming crowd and swings his sword. The clean cut rips open the cloth stomach, spilling out stalks of hay in every direction.

 

“Welcome everyone,” Bonnie greets her visitors with a broad sweep, “we are very happy to have you all in our company for this year’s celebration. As you all know, this annum we are celebrating the most momentous occasion. My son, Prince Mitchell, is happy and proud to announce his engagement to King Tavares of Toronto, as affirmed by me.”

There’s a healthy show of people. The most important invitees are present. She doesn’t mind hamming up the festivities in order to excite the people. They have kings and queens from dominions like Dallas, Pittsburgh, and Colorado, with princes and princesses from more. Would-be kings clot the sidelines. It is quite reminiscent of the festival held to celebrate Connor’s own betrothal.

She’s not used to owning much. She inherited a centennial kingdom without lifting a finger. Some would consider that a rise to greatness. She knows that, in hindsight, it equals very little. She starves off the fame and fortune in order to promise her son it when he grows old.

And now, her kindly actions give Mitch a husband. It’s the greatest pleasure of all. To show the world what they cannot have. To reveal the son she possessed behind closed doors who will now warm the bed of a legendary king.

Her squires assemble in a gallery of servitude before her. They are the ones to announce the celebrations will begin that evening. She does nothing. For once, she may relax. All eyes will be on her son, in his first, and final appearance, to the outside world.

 

The mumming plays are an important centrepiece in any celebration their kingdom advocate, and this year it doubles over on entertainment. She purposely asks it to be exotic and rich in flavour to excite her guests of all calibre. This year, they take the occasion and bless Mitch with the art of song to the rhythm of their shoes pattering against the tile.

Her son would always love their appearance and the carefully choreographed dancers who would shake until the bells on their ankles jingled. The first time they yanked a handkerchief out of their arms and flapped them around, her then young child had squealed with delight. His untrained eyes would zip and zoom on the folk dance until sleep pulled him under.

Now, even the fancy costumes don’t direct his attention back. Mitch nods off to the christening ales in the air as he lounges back in his throne. Bonnie claps for as long as she can manage and then knocks her knuckles against her son’s shoulder. It disturbs from the complacent trance he’s pulling himself into long enough to flap his eyelashes at her.

“Go stand in the circle, my son. It is tradition for the dancers to compete for the maiden.”

“But mother,” Mitch whines, “it is embarrassing.”

“John will find you, I promise.”

“But--“

“Go on.” She pushes him up off the ceremonial chair. The image of the beautiful sovereign descending from his perch is in contrast with the party’s attendees jeering at him.

The lead dancer opens his arms up and beckons Mitch deeper into the fold, to the centre of the circle made of the other showmen. The dozens of them hum, haw, and jump up, clicking their thighs together. The princes in attendance all lift their ale and cheer, the ones seated moving to stand so that they can replace the dancers come the change in tune.

The custom dictates that the princes wait for the strum of the lute before they join. On cue, a whole ocean of them flocks to enclose the young prince in the middle, bowing their heads in joint union before replicating the moves they witnessed earlier. The whole lot of them spin circles like the patterns in drapery, resembling a complex pictorial design of all colours, shapes and sizes.

Bonnie tilts her chin up to keep Mitch in relative view. Once or twice, she sees a snap of blue kaftan, the whistling furs on the coat symbolic of only John. Bonnie falls in love with the glimpse of embroidery and silver adornments vindictive of Toronto’s fierce lands and the winter that holds them captive. Unfortunate is that Mitch’s head is never connecting at the times when John resurfaces from the sea of men. They never see each other.

A crescendo begins to rise. The dance quickens, becomes more violent. Connor, as fiancé, takes responsibility and joins the centre crease where Mitch is held prisoner. He kisses Mitch on the forehead once, tugs the pendant on his neck to bring him in closer, and then shoves Mitch forward. Her boy windmills, stumbles, and gracefully falls into the arms of a foreign prince.

She identifies the mop of blond hair as Sir Boeser. The prince, a beacon of hope and gratitude, collect Mitch in one piece. He straightens Mitch’s dress, plants another kiss on his forehead and shoves him again. Finally, she sees her Mitch is smiling again. He revels in the attention he receives. All of it casts a flame inside of his stomach that keeps burning.

Another toss and Sir Matthews joins the fold. His floppy hair cascades down, stroking Mitch’s forehead. Mitch giggles to himself, cranks his head back so that Matthews’ lips can touch. Matthews doesn’t humour his request initially, taking his time fixing Mitch appearance back. When he kisses, he does so with care. The transition from love to shove riffles Mitch’s hair in waves. Her son drifts away until John's arms reach out to grab ahold of him.

The betrothed meet as one, interlocking their arms together. Mitch compliments John like how a sconce colours the wall its placed on. There, together, they burn brighter than the ignition of wood shavings.

The finale is less than chaste but Bonnie sets aside the presiding guilt and begins to taunt them both. A kiss, a kiss she cries! But not a kiss for a boy: the playful little pecks on the boy’s head. She wants John to kiss Mitch as a full grown man. Their joined union will not only consolidate the treaty between their two nations but the convergence of two souls.

“No,” Mitch says as John’s head dips. Both of his bony little hands extend like the plumage of a red tail hawk, pushing his fiancé back. “Not until marriage.”

Fair enough: Bonnie stands up to end the dance. John settles for butting their heads together in their own little transfer. The hands wrapped around Mitch’s back slide upward, swinging their bodies to and fro.

She is overcome with emotion, so much that she wants to sing the chorus of the songs and kick her legs up in the air in a frivolous display. How she and her people came by John Tavares and the nation he governs she will never know. She must be the luckiest woman alive.

 

She is no fool. She knows Mitch looks barely legal, like meat cooked just enough to ripen the fat but not cure it of parasites. His boyish face makes him look half a decade younger than he actually is. He’s bait for the many foreign officials that come with grand proposals. The whole lot of them are weaned on mythological tales of Ganymede, the beautiful cupbearer serving fine mead to the gods of Olympus.

Bonnie Marner is not the kind of woman to bend to the egotistical, often times narcissistic princes who’ve worn their crowns since they could toddle. She has braided her life with her son, so the man she willfully marries him off to lives less than a day away by horseback, in one of the most stable economies in the continent.

The loss of her firstborn has tamed her into what some a shrewd queen. She disagrees, naturally. She’s at the prime of her judgement in every sense of the word.

And John, well, John is the palette cleanser. She welcomes him to hold her son because she knows his hands will stay firm on his hip bones and not dip anymore below the waistline. He exacts the same authority as Bonnie but behind closed doors bows to her feet and promises nothing more than what is achievable. There is no will to tear up everyday life by the roots because his expectations are forever lukewarm; a tub she can enter without waiting for the water to cool first.

Mitch is blessed that such a rational man is willing to give him love. John never asks for more, eats his fill and wipes his plate down. He leads with unpronounced strength. He focuses on the diplomatic measure of his own country and lets Bonnie plan the wedding for them. It’s the wedding she always wanted, back when she was wasn’t widowed and married to a foul boy from the mainland who kissed her like it was a chore.

She will shower Mitch in diamonds and give him the life she wept for after a rough coupling with her late husband, as she stared down the high ceiling and prayed to just be able to shut her eyes and drift away in her own dreamland.

The morning after introductions comes the competition of skills. She lines the suitors up by location and addresses them by name. Each of them presents an ability of choice. Mitch stays beside her as the best of architectural ornamentation. Even still, she knows how it bores him. He leans his face on his bound fist and gripes to no one in particular.

John goes first. He dedicates his successes to his intended, draws the bowstring back and comes damn near close to hitting the bullseye on the target. He spends years honing his craft and the effects come at a great benefit to his success in marriage. Bonnie sees how his muscles tense and release, shooting arrows like darts until they split hairs at the other end.

Geography determines which talents come to play, but Arizona always offers something tasteful to finish the festivities. Matthews is no exception: he picks up his javelin and steadies himself at the forefront where he must throw it. The tasselled head points upward like the helmets of the cavalry as he adjusts his body.

Before he proceeds, he turns to where they are sitting. “For you, my prince,” he says.

Matthews tucks both of his feet in close proximity. His palms help grip the javelin as he uses his shoulder to pull the shaft back. Bonnie swears she can hear his chest puff. Then, in an instant, the string pulling him taut snaps. His body unwinds and grinds to hoist the elongated shape up and over. The momentum works it the rest of the way through until the pointed head is ejected forward.

It goes a rather impressive distance and plummets into the earth where it digs a shallow grave. It hits tip-first, wobbles, and then steadies itself. Around her, the arena erupts with applause. The upper body strength necessary to accomplish the feat is daunting.

Bonnie welcomes all of the contributions with an equal appraisal. Whether discus thrower, archer, or equestrian rider, they all pale in comparison to her would-be son-in-law. Favouritism, however, pricks as painfully as a needle. She sews her mouth shut.

At least her son is paying attention now, albeit with a distracted demeanour. His eyes stray and admire the unusual gifts from lands farther than the eye can see. They all perform for him, fighting for a hand already taken in marriage. She can’t blame how it makes his eyes fog up, although she would prefer he dedicates more time to ease the lines on John’s palm as opposed to being coquet with the southerners.

 

She looks forward to the banquet and the introduction of new recipes and goods. However, a celebration such as theirs is not catered by anything but the finest and she hand approves each dish before she so much as lets a spec of food rinse her taste buds. Many of the southern kingdoms bring additions which she declines with a smile, but orders to be preserved by the kitchen cooks for future use. They are delicacies she will dine on by the fire with her son in hand as they tick off the engagement’s required funds.

John would shoulder a majority of the burden, but Bonnie has her own lineage to care for; the wedding will be proper by her standards, not Toronto’s royalty. She, after all, is giving John her son. Her word, in her palace, is law.

At the head of the table, she is seated. The oncoming crowd brings many languages, tongues, and tastes. They sample the goods laid in front with glee. The kings and queens that come in attendance join her side while the princes take the opposing table. In front of them, the spread is decadent. Vegetable pottages, venison, chicken and fish in spiced almond milk, and even rare jellies are just some of the many treats she bears.

She expects the youth to eat until they are sick. If not that, then drown their kidneys in ale and retire to their bedrooms in the wee hours of the morning.

The food is first come, first served. Hunger waits for no one and appetites are sated in due time. Several times, she looks over and sees Mitch in his place beside John. He is but skin and bones, likely because his throat digests words and not food. He talks and talks without end, the conversations disappearing from his mouth like steam.

John participates very little. He eats his food without complaint and pours water for Mitch to sever the effects of intoxication. Mitch’s concerns aren’t in thanking his fiancé but continuing the talk he started. Werenski, Laine, and Matthews crowd in with glittering eyes. They hang off of every word that leaves Mitch’s mouth like a kitten nursing milk from its mother.

She can tell John grows weary. A long day boasting many wins takes its toll. He abandons Mitch to the scrutiny of his visitors to join Bonnie at their table.

“No offence,” he says, “but the boys there are far too rowdy.”

“None took, you are very welcome here.” She smiles, full and heavy. She offers him a plate of grapes and he obliges.

Among the old kings and queens, John is a youthful face. He has not grown into his wrinkles nor does his hair begin to gray. His wisdom extends beyond his years. Even the most simple mannerisms reveal an underlying precision. Before the juices of any grape touch his mouth he plucks every stem and leaf from the vine by hand and rearranges them on his plate.

She hopes her son will pick up some of his habits. Watching Matthews shove half a stem into Mitch’s mouth and having the young prince spit seeds out like a street peasant makes her want to grimace. He is above acting like a child: the marriage will be the step he needs to fully transition into the adult she expects he will be.

 

The pavilions are usually vacant during festivals: made to accommodate more than they should. The jousting tournament, however, fills them to the point where they groan under the weight. Banners of knights old and recent dock the rafters of each building as word sections off and multiplies in nearby villages.

The cry to the tournament is boisterous; the answer just as loud. People come from far and wide to watch the knights suit up and ride into battle on their trusty steeds. Boys that were once roaming the training grounds learning to use their stirrups now stand as pillars of glory. They line the tournament fields leading up to the Berfrois.

She seats herself in the grandstand with the other noble spectators. They stand a full level over the scene, the view easily turning daisies into yellow specs below them. The foreign princes and their men are seated in their own pavilions, painted their nations’ colours. They are joined by several hundred spectators all erecting a cry of might to power their men through battle.

Ladies, commoners, royalty: they all gather. The only missing piece is Mitch.

“Mother, may I be seated elsewhere?” he says. One of his boots rests on the plank leading up to the Berfrois but does not proceed.

She stares him down with disdain. “Does your seat bear fangs? Does it creak? What is the matter?”

“Nothing, mother. I--”

“Then get off your high horse and come here.”

He does not budge. The act of defiance burns her.

“Come here, Mitch.”

“Mother.” His face goes dark; his freckles pop out. “I already have so little freedom. I wish to talk to Connor and Dylan. I see them so little: it is only fair.”

“You will see them tomorrow,” she says to pacify him. She tires the spats and arguing that should have gone to die with his adolescence. It is one thing she will not miss once he is gone.

“I know mother but in two day’s time my engagement will demand I not travel. Please. One day.”

Their interaction draws eyes. Her son knows better than to challenge her judgement around the noblemen and noblewomen. The mouths on them never stop. Their gossip builds a moat around the keep of her throne room and poisons her reputation.

“Fine,” she spits, more to protect her than agree with him. “Go, be with them.”

“Thank you.” He bows his head. In seconds, he runs off, head still low as he plows through the groups of people still swarming the north end of the field.

She does her best to pass the excuse off as her boy wanting to interact more with the foreigners as he usually does in the grand celebrations. Before she can seat herself however, she is confronted by another cheverse. The lady is decked in shades of green and resembles forage; the woods of London come alive from the dye that stains the cotton dark.

“I would think twice before sending him over yonder, my lady,” the mistress says.

The cosmetics on the woman’s face are distracting. One eyebrow is not plucked and her foundation is uneven. Clearly, the woman is not worthy of her time. Bonnie should send her away. She should be seated and enjoy the festival she worked so tirelessly to prepare for.

Instead, she says, “pardon me?”

“Word passes that your boy has acquired himself a leman.”

She cannot help herself and pushes out an unsteady laugh. “You misdeme my son. He is not an infidel. The only man in his life is Tavares.”

“They say otherwise.”

She stands up. “Who? Who says otherwise? Bring the messenger here and have them speak for themselves. Should they be brave enough to see my son as a swine they must surely enjoy an audience with me.”

It flusters the noblewoman. Her eyelids droop. She wilts like a flower without access to water and peels herself away.

The information seizes Bonnie with a snapping sensation. Her primary focus remains on displaying a good face to the public but the mechanisms inside her belly won’t stop twirling. Vomit surges up her throat in a rush. She plants herself down in her seat and waits out the zig-zags waggling in her periphery view.

She tries to watch the younger knights demonstrate their prowess with care. The invocation is the most important part of the processions and yet, her vision is reduced to a single bar. Every word the woman spoke wheels around, plowing through the rows of sods inside of her head. It reaps what she sows and breeds more contempt.

Trumpets blare and the shields are hung for the knights to hit. They select their competitors and order themselves: London’s rider will go first. He wields a lance decorated with gilded leaves pressed into the wood. His horse, bred for strength with bay colouring that twines its neck with black streaks, gleams with sweat from warm up.

Even the excitement of watching the knights tear themselves to pieces cannot distract her. The tourney only raises the volume of the voices in her head. The dances, the feasting, the music: it all became simply overpowering. Twice, she misses the cue to celebrate the victors with his prize of choice, normally the loser’s horse, before she realizes she needs her son.

Mitch does not lie. He obeys her command because he chooses to. Always has. The belief that some foolish noblewomen should be able to tear apart their trust is laughable. The woman jests. She’s inhaled too much drink to see straight.

But Bonnie fears.

She collects her skirts and hurries down the stairs. Her son could not have gone far. To leave would be out of the question. Her trust in him begins to waver though, as she checks the Edmonton outposts and sees Connor and Dylan, hand in hand, bolstering on their winner of choice. Mitch is not with them.

He is not with Laine, Eichel, or Werenski. The northerners say they haven’t seen him since the opening dance. Panic builds inside of Bonnie.

Finally, a memory triggers. A flash of colour: gold. Red and gold, the collection of luxury only the desert nations covet. A name comes to mind: Matthews. The fog that once housed the arena like a fur coat lifts into thin air.

The flaps of loose cloth at the ends of her dress are licked by mud. She’s stained with an ebony glaze. Like a parent in mourning, she ushers toward the back stands where the most unwanted are seated.

There, it looks like a reverse holly tree; a plant draped in red and green instead of green and red. The spiny leaves consist of Arizona red, the margin of the leaves ragged by the uneven cut of the pavilion’s rail. Mitch is the one green berry on the stalk. The circlet on his brow redeems him as noble in contrast to the native earth shades of the commoners nearby. One of Auston’s hands clamps down on his shoulder to keep him close.

The likeness to holly trees and their berries helps her remember the time a handmaiden held a young Mitch up too close to a cut branch, where the berries’ seeds were being disposed of. Mitch’s hands latched onto a clump of them and shucked the branch free, popping two into his mouth. He told her the truth after spending two days vomiting from the poison he had ingested. Those two days, she had relieved herself of all duties to care for him, only calmed upon learning he had been entranced by the ripened red shape of the drupes. It was the first relevant scare after Chris’ demise and as such, her eyes did swell and sleep she did not.

Mitch always loved to frolic with the colour red. The colour of a swelling flame, of desire, passion, and lust. They guard a dangerous keep of sin. Red is not like green’s symbolic rise of nature, life, and the renewal of energy and fertility. It is not the depth and stability of blue. Red is war, danger, strength.

The forbidden fruit tastes so much sweeter. Of course, temptation lures him away. She worries though, because for all the determination it represents, the holly berry’s red colouring is no mistake. It coats Auston Matthews from head to toe. A beautiful poison that is still, at heart, poison.

 

She doesn’t mean to invade in her dear son’s privacy but her suspicions begin to boil to a critical point. Typically, her son will dine with her in the morning, then absorb the cooked heat in the baths as she massages his skull to get the knots in his hair out. His routine has changed since the festival’s start. Now, by the time she knocks on his bedroom at morn he is out doing God knows what with delinquents from lands she can’t even pronounce.

She twists her coils tighter. She demands he stay for breakfast and taste the imports and many gifts her suitors bring (but not before she has a tester wet their tongue, to assure nothing poisonous will slip down the throat of her beautiful boy). She tells Mitch that in due time he will be shipped to Toronto and they will be unable to spend time together as they once did.

It is supposed to encourage him to linger by her side, but the opposite effect is achieved. Mitch’s knees knock together as they pull up and obscure his face from view, his sloppy makeup only half complete because of how his arms spastically twitch at the most inopportune moments.

“Oh my baby,” she croons, bringing him into her arms, “you have nothing to fear. I will be close. I will visit.”

“Mama,” he says. He speaks as though he will saddle more onto his reply. Instead, his voice falls short. He sobs into her chest as he did as a wee babe.

He departs with his head low. Her intuition tells her there is something else gnawing at her son’s composure but he closes himself off from her. She could pry, but she knows he will only create more distance between them. He is already fading: she cannot take the risk of angering him.

Most parents go into their child’s room to straighten furniture. Bonnie finds herself in the mouth of Mitch’s chambers with a different objective in mind. At heart, she knows her boy is polite and obedient. He obeys his curfew, is responsible, and generally open. He earns his privacy and then some. Being there a complete violation of his trust.

That knowledge haunts her as she rifts through his wardrobe and selection of clothing for courtship gifts. Anything not green or white is tossed over her left arm and disposed of. His stack of jewelry is removed at once. Normally, she allows him to show some skin and decorate it with fine stones. No more. He will not be allowed to make himself attractive so long as his engagement ring sits heavy on his finger.

She scoops every offending object out and departs. A few servants give her strange looks but she easily buys their silence. The only other obstacle presents itself the second she turns the corner and there exists a burst of yellow.

“Dylan,” she says, realizing she has incriminated herself. “What brings you here?”

“I fancied some space from Connor. He’d rather play archery with Auston Matthews than entertain me.”

“Is that so? I never pictured the two of them to be anything but acquaintances."

“Oh yes, they’ve become good friends.” He eyes the stack of items in her hands. “What have you there?”

Bonnie scans the articles. Some are birthday presents. Some are the playful gestures of adolescence given by neighbours. Some even go on to represent a call to action: a covenant of love that they would embrace if only Bonnie gives her blessing. She let her son wear them because it never occurred to her that the power would be abused. She gave them to him to wear because it made a mockery of the courting process: people would see him don the robes of satin, silk, and cashmere and know he did so without informing the owner of any interest.

It was a toy to flaunt with. Now, she takes them out to burn.

Dylan hums to himself to reattach her attention to him. She knows she looks like she’s crawled out from the underworld using her hands and knees, face smeared with sweat and eyes rimmed with dark, sleep-drawn semi circles.

Her restraint snaps like kindling. “Sir Strome, I trust you with my life. If I ask you a question now do you promise to tell the truth?”

Dylan straightens his back. “Always, my lady.”

She opens her mouth to question him but there exists no words for her to say. Saying it may make it a reality. Always, it has been to squander her suspicions and let fate unwrap the truth when the times comes. To interrogate Dylan is cheating, in a way.

“What is it, my lady?” Dylan asks. One of his hands raises as if to comfort her, but drops in rapid succession. The power dynamic between them taints any meaningful interaction.

“I pray you do not say what I fear.”

“And what is that?”

She squeezes her eyes tight until tears spring down her cheeks. “That Auston Matthews bewitches my son. He seduces him, convinces him to be an adulterer.”

Dylan looks downcast. “That, I cannot deny. They are very close.” His fingers grip his lace drape in his port royal shirt. The cinched waist doubles over and visible creases hide his lanky form.

“I did not see until the joust. He abandons his own mother to sit with such a beast," she says.

“It is not only that: I know they share secrets over the dinner table. Mitch offers his own meal when Matthews is served cold meat. They walk together by the lake and Matthews drapes his colours over Mitch at the bonfire. I do know that Mitch reciprocates to the best of his ability, behind closed doors maybe.”

It’s exactly what she’s dreading. The blame is hers to own. She demanded she be force-fed hurtful truths knowing it would make her sick.

“I see.” Her composure ebbs and flows as she balances on the precipice of a breakdown. “Thank you, Dylan. I very much appreciate your loyalty.”

“It is my pleasure, my queen.”

She scorns her own weakness, wears her fury like its protective plating. Her servants provide a flame to decompose the evidence with while the remaining company is occupied with drinking chaste wine.

There was only one leader in this two-person church Mitch worships and she recognizes it as Auston Matthews.

 

She asks her handmaidens to make a specific contribution to her during her daily chores: follow Mitch. They will be her eyes and her ears when she absolutely must be present at royal conventions and events.

The only problem is that she underestimates her boy. Like the mouse is he nicknamed after, he scurries away into private hiding spots and evades sight.

The fates play a cruel trick on her, hiding her son like this. Desperation continues to grow until it becomes its own persona. She walks around like a woman possessed, stalking his every movement, shrieking into her pillow when he can no longer be found.

For the first time, she yells at John. She tells him that he slacks on his duties as a fiancé, that he’d rather mingle with the kings than spend time with her son. She knows she should be backhanded for her comments. John does worse: he says nothing. He reminds her why she chose him after he was widowed.

She cries into John’s chest. She blathers like a newborn, saliva pooling inside her mouth and wetting her teeth. It’s a truly pitiful sight. John says nothing but she knows it will be a secret he takes to the grave. He practices chivalry like it is a religion.

He blesses her with good fortune. It activates not a mileway later, when she’s wandering around an abandoned section concubines once lounged in. It’s a beautiful location, fraught with strange flowers and gold plating. The decor is faint and wispy, like it belongs in a dream.

The green colouring locks in her mind. It’s Mitch. He’s not alone. Auston Matthews holds him like an estranged lover. Oppose them, Connor holds Dylan much of the same way. She can tell Dylan is uncomfortable by the slant of his eyebrows. Mitch should be using the exact expression at the inappropriate touches concerning him. He does not. He stretches himself out and places a hand over Matthews’ to continue the touches.

“Auston and I toured the tulip garden down south; it’s a lovely display they have planted,” Mitch says. Matthews’ fingers dangle down and feed him a bulbous cherry, which he nips in-between his two front teeth.

“What’s with this Auston character?” Dylan asks. His expression is sour, as if he’s touring the stables before their morning cleaning. “I would assume he would still be called Sir Matthews. You're much too informal for your own good, Mitch. What would John say?”

He rips the words right out from her mouth. The cozying up with foreign royalty sits in her stomach like rock soup.

“Oh shut it with the babble about rules and regulations; Tavares doesn’t so much as balk and neither should you. It becomes tiresome having to always please the commoners and I shouldn’t have to combine you with them, Dylan.”

Matthews strokes a hand up Mitch’s arm in retribution. It’s a sinful jab at Dylan’s point. Bonnie can see Connor’s fiancé is not flapping his gums; Mitch’s unsubtle flirting pokes holes in Bonnie's trust of him.

“I only look out for the wellbeing of my good friend. Sooner or later, it will come to bite you.”

“And when it does, I will collapse at your feet,” Mitch makes a kissing motion, “kiss your soles and bed you in thanks.”

“Oh, God. Be quiet.” Dylan churns his voice out like threads woven into silk cloth. “I hold your best interests at heart and you repay me with that image?”

“I would never act out of line,” Matthews speaks for Mitch, who continues to pucker his lips. “I only go where I am allowed.”

“I should hope so,” Dylan says.

Connor pinches the boy’s inner thigh to reprimand him in lieu of words. Mitch smiles like Matthews has fished the moon, the stars, and the series of constellations with a wooden, handmade rod. Bonnie jolts as if she has been poked by her own needle. Something wicked brews in the scene in front of her, the people she trusted her son with only half-way recognizing the danger that lurks; his pointed fingernails massaging her boy's scalp in ways only she is allowed.

She fears her time has run short: the commoners will demand her presence in time. It sends her wits into exhaustion, trying to stretch herself thin to be beside her son in his time of need while meeting the needs of her kingdom.

However, her contempt breeds inside of her stomach like a fungus. She flags down almost every selection of food for the grand feast because of the hunger inside of her. As a queen, she should take the dignified high road but deep down, she knows she’s internalizing a sickness. It’s incubating in her stomach, rancid and strong.

 

Lady luck does shine on her though, by the main quarters where Matthews can be found pulling up his stockings. It's after before, when the lords mingle. As per the usual, his clothing is flashy: an eyesore. Bonnie stares down the colours with distaste. They reek of fortune.

“Sir Auston Matthews.” Her voice spoils, a fault in the cork that is her tongue, and the bark that follows sends the visitors hastening out the corridors. Her intended target pacifies her with a calm look that sends her anger tumbling.

“You stay away from my son,” she cries like a wolf chasing down a sick deer. “He is engaged to John Tavares and will be his bride. Toronto will have another king. You are nothing in his eyes because you come from nothing. I will not be made a liar by your mischief.”

Matthews stops and turns, unable to disturb the gold pendants roped around his neck. When she squints, Bonnie swears she can see strands of brown hair clasped by the chain that links the stones together. No doubt it is her son’s. The creature in front of her leeches his character to breathe.

Matthews takes the moral high route, grovels at her feet like the perfect guest and sucks up to her from under curled eyelashes. “My apologies Lady Marner if I said anything to disturb you in my travels. I mean nothing but the best for you and your family.”

Somehow, the reply blows the coals in her belly to extreme temperature; sparks fly in every direction, erupting through her mouth.

“I should hope so, because Dylan is convinced you are making a fool of me behind my back.”

“Dylan is fair and noble but I’m afraid we do not mesh well. That might explain it.”

An accusation lingers in the back of her throat, but she cannot bring herself to hurl it at him, not yet. Her dignity is all she has left in the fight against evil.

“My point stands. I do not understand your intention with my son.”

“Well, he is a good friend. Nothing more.”

“You lie: I have witnesses that say they have seen you undress him with your eyes.”

“Is that so? Perhaps it is not I that lie to you, but Tavares.”

A strike against John is a strike against her, and Bonnie takes the insult to heart. Her teeth grind into stumps, a hot flush working up to her face so fast it makes her dizzy.

“Do not speak of Tavares’ name in vain! He is a wonderful suitor and perfect for my son.”

The corners of Matthews’ mouth twitch. It is a wicked thing. He withholds truths from her and laughs because of it.

“Lady Marner, I swear by all that is holy, I am innocent. I do not know what you demand of me.”

“Silence. In two days time, he will be engaged and I do not want you to attend the ceremony out of respect for my lineage.”

It succeeds in destroying his smile. Matthews’ mouth opens instinctually and shuts in rapid succession. Under the queen’s glare, he bows. “I understand. I will depart tonight if it pleases you.”

“It does. You have until sundown.” She retains her firmness, with no room for argument.

“A shame.” His eyes evade her. “If I do not see you at supper tonight, then I will see you off now. May you retain your good health. Your son has a bright future on the horizon.”

“I know. He will make a wonderful king.”

“Yes. He will. Goodbye, Lady Marner.”

Somehow, the hollowness embedded in her lungs shapeshifts into a webbing. It clings to the cavities in her stomach and soaks up her opinions. The residue, the hope, fluttering inside of her chest loosens and floats away. Part of her fears it is too late.

 

There is no other explanation. If she is a clam, then Matthews is the shucking knife that pries her open. His tips spear into her flesh and twist until her seal snaps in two. Her hinges erupt and there sits her pearl, which his greedy hands steal.

She sees it in how Mitch’s affections stray to Matthews’ blocky form as the man vacates the palace’s entrance. Mitch’s little skips bring him within grabbing distance and Bonnie feels her shoulder tense up enough to send her neck into sporadic twitches.

Fate smiles at Bonnie again and Matthews adheres to her warning, shooing Mitch away. It’s by no definition a heartless move but the repercussions are immediate. Mitch’s expression becomes pained. The mortification colours his race in little red freckles and he sidesteps Matthews to return to the table.

She clears her throat to clear it of debris. It will be for the best.

Her boy sports continues the depressing little guise until supper. He nary touches his food, but he gulps his ale like it's water in a desert oasis. Some of the princes try to prompt conversation and he denies them.

John sits by him for comfort more than actual talk. She hopes with the exile of the distraction her son will bounce back and reveal that sunflower smile. Her hopes diminish over time. John’s calculating words serve to only aggravate her son further. From her seat at the head, Bonnie sees Mitch’s fists are clenched.

That night, they lack much chemistry. The secondhand embarrassment infects the room like a tragedy. Mitch nakedly expresses boredom. His cheeks hollow in. Eventually, he stands without having touched a single item on his plate and makes his way over to Bonnie.

“Mother,” Mitch says, swaying in place. “I do not feel well. May I retire?”

She places her cutlery down and instinctively feels his forehead. It is warm. Of course it is, because her boy’s blood is like a bubbling foam. He is so small, she could be led to believe he is constantly battling a fever.

“My son, John did want to see you tonight before the grand announcement. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, mother. I cannot keep my eyes open. I am so tired. Please, may I lay down?”

“You may. I will send someone to check on you.”

Mitch raises a hand. “There’s no need, Connor has already offered to escort me.”

Bonnie does not trust Connor in light of her recent revelations but to confront him on the basis of little evidence would be improper. Her son places blind faith over reason. It wedges a line of trust between them to see Matthews’ sway of authority still burning strong in the people she used to adore.

She will send her handmaidens later but that is a secret she will not tell Mitch. She nods to placate her son with a simple, “of course. Thank him for me. I will see you tomorrow morn and then we begin preparations.”

“Thank you, mother.” His mouth opens up in a large yawn. It works through his body in ripples.

“Good night, Mitch.” She is distracted by a server bringing plates of fine meat, cooked to perfection in differing shades of pink to black. Mitch is winded with lovesickness, that’s all. She predicts by the next day he will be back to normal at the formal dinner.

Her body stumbles up the stairs, requiring assistance by two or more members of staff. He refuses their help with kind words, or so she’s told. She asks because the next morn, her boy does not greet her at the entry to her bedroom. He does not attend breakfast nor does John speak about meeting him. In fact, he says Mitch’s bedroom was empty upon entry.

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, it is her love that will be her undoing.

She tears the kingdom apart searching for her boy. Her boy is so tiny it’s as if his knees submerge into the dirt. After many non-isolated incidents as a child, she commanded her son to always have a chaperone to prevent further tragedy: clearly her regulations have become lax with time.

No peasants come forth and the guards keep their mouths shut with paste. No nobleman can quit blathering on about their accomplishments long enough to assist her. Only John takes her worries seriously and sends search parties to scour the bogs and marshes near the lake in case Mitch will become a repeat offender.

She becomes so desperate that she briefly ponders tearing up the earth with her angular fingernails. Her baby boy may be sitting underneath them with a mouth full of dirt. She will do anything; she will tip his head back and scoop out the handfuls of grimy soil until he coughs if it will bring him back to her.

The festival continues on and Mitch is but a foreign presence only remembered through his likeness on the tapestries. She would spare herself the agony of sitting on her throne and overlooking the drunken stupor but it is the perfect opportunity to arouse suspicion in those who look over their shoulders and cough into their chalices.

Auston Matthews is gone; she sent him away and his gaudish garments no longer touch the soil. In his place, she sees Connor McDavid spill wine into a crescent moon-shaped splash on the tile. His fingers tremble so excitedly that it’s a miracle his plate has not dropped the contents yet.

It spells trouble in big cursive letters. Her mouth fractures into a frown, her nails stop tapping.

 

Connor is a good boy, always has been.

“Tell me what he did to my son or I will behead you and leave you as an example for all in the kingdom.” She whips her hand out like a guillotine, the sweeping winds that follow suite threatening to blow her court away.

Connor is a reliable friend. Mature for his age.

“You will not like it,” Connor says. His voice is husky, old wood burning in an eternal flame. There’s an air of knowing she knows she is not hallucinating because Dylan’s accusations voice themselves in the creasing lines on top of his forehead. Connor’s own fiancé understands a deep divide in priority.

Connor was the only prince she ever put her full trust in. And now Mitch is gone.

She emphasizes with Dylan, because she too thought Connor was something he was not. The boy she envisioned was a proud and noble ruler of young age, capable of bolstering his foes into submission all while toasting to new treaty signatures by moonrise. The only image she can supply for Connor now is that of a wasp. A puny, insignificant creature until its sting hurts worse than the bite of a rabid dog.

Oh, the wasp too shares a masquerade. It dons the yellow and black furs that distinguish its cousin: the little frolicking bees that pester the meadow’s bounty. By the time you’ve allowed the wasp to linger, it’s too late. The damage is done, the skin is swollen around your ankle and tears are fresh from the glands in your eyelids.

Connor is much of the same and she despises him for it.

“Tell me,” she says.

“My queen, your son is safe. Sir Matthews did promise.”

“Go on.” By God, she knows she resembles a ghostly sprite, the eerie ghastcrown on her head a mockery of the lands she reigns over. Only her son could drive her to such ruin.

“It was my understanding the two of them shared a very plausible bond.”

“Your understanding?” she scoffed. “How absurd. That monster’s venomous jaws latched onto my son like a snake does a mouse and sucked the blood from him until he was limp and lifeless. There was never any love.”

“My lady, Mitch and Auston had formed a relationship in the time they spent together.” He speaks as if it is common knowledge. He is oblivious to how the answer scorns her.

“But how? I watched that boy. He talked to no one without my permission first.”

Connor’s hand disappeared behind his back, the folds of his waistcoat hiding the majority of his arm. “Mitch requested that I help him talk to Auston.” He looks ready to serenade her, not confess to a crime.

“And you obliged?”

“My queen, you have always said I should do good in the eyes of Mitch. I believed I was doing right by you.”

“If I said no, my word stands firm! You are in no place to pick and choose what rules you follow when you board in my kingdom.”

“Regardless,” he says, although Bonnie can see she’s wiped the sneer out from his face, “Auston desired Mitch and Mitch shared something very important with Auston that threatened his future marriage with John.”

“Which was?”

Connor’s facial expressions reduce. All inclination of emoting disappear with the courage he came in with. “My lady, you will not like it.”

She beats her fist down on the arm of her throne. “Speak! You were so inclined to do so before.”

“Auston, he,” dread encompasses his words, “he deflowered Mitch.”

Bonnie caws like a weakened raven. Words evade her: what would she even say? Her son’s only hope of an authentic marriage, that his child would inherit property, loses the threaded needle. His bloody honeymoon would never come to pass: the sheets in his room bear the remainder of his virtue.

“Mitch, he thought only of you.” Bonnie looks up from where her face is cupped in her hands. Connor continues, “he severed their relationship. Auston was deeply disturbed by this, and so he came to me. He begged for a second opinion.”

She comes close to bawling in front of her court. A watery shudder rips through her body and turns her insides into a thick foam. “And what did you say, Connor? May all that is holy you prove me wrong and say you sliced his throat for daring to lay hands on Mitch.”

He hangs his head. “Where he comes from, it is custom to show love through desperate acts. What some would call ritual kidnapping or--“

“ _Harpagmos_.” A piece snaps into place. A premeditated act; her boy is still alive. “Connor, you forget the abduction of a noble boy comes with the consent of his parent. I did not consent, therefore the marriage is void!”

“The lover also tells the boy’s friends. They ultimately decide whether to conceal the boy or lay hold of him. They decide if the abductor is unworthy and I knew Mitch was unhappy here and has been for some time. The first time he smiled like that was upon Auston’s introduction and henceforth interactions. Call me cruel, but I would not take that from him.”

“So you strangled him,” she spits. “You strangled him by the neck and pulled him out of his bed. You choked his pale column of flesh until he spat blood and roped him up, to send him away without a single facet of knowledge about the suitor you married him to.”

Connor looks appalled. “That is incorrect. We were very gentle. At dinner, we dressed his drink to induce a stupor and took him to bed.”

“Yes.” Her eyes widen. “I remember him as tired.”

“Auston met him in his room and took him in arm. He carried him outside and dressed him in long gowns to keep him warm. They departed under my watchful eye. Mitch was not harmed.”

“No,” she says. She crumbles in place. “Not physically. But in spirit, you have ruined him forever. Little do you know, my boy will be defiled and abused and there is no one to blame but yourself.”

“My lady--“

“Get out! If I ever see you in my kingdom again, I will have you killed on sight.”

Connor’s movements falter, his hand falls to his mid-thigh where it remains. Years of companionship and trust dissolves like the ingredients of a cauldron. She sees a dead man walking in his place, with fangs just as sharp as the python that infiltrated her celebration and swallowed her son whole.

“As you wish.” For the last time, he bows to her. “Goodbye my lady, I wish you happiness.”

“You have taken my happiness, forever. Leave with that knowledge.”

He abandons her on her throne, where she decomposes. She is the leaves on the timberland moor that decay into little shards. In time, her entire court will putrefy into a festering mold. Moths will bite holes into their clothing and gnats will swarm the lanterns with a ferocity that eats the candle glow in a single movement. They will sprout boils on their skin and blisters on their feet. Her son is stolen and the casing of her heart is unlocked. It does not stop her heart from falling down, into her stomach where it dissolves and escapes her sight forever.

 

In the Mid Year, a letter addressed to the crown is laid on her night table. The paper is heavy and stiff. It can withstand the weight of the wax seal closing it shut. The bond is difficult to separate and depicts the head of a coyote, jaws full of sharp teeth, pried open and ready to snap. Already, she knows the sender’s identity. An innate urge to rip the parchment into little fragments comes to mind but then the remains of her boy would die with it.

Reluctantly, she summons a handmaiden to read the inscription for her and tries not to glare daggers into the young woman that comes in with little steps that pinch the front of her slippers. Her staff grow to fear her relatively quickly, rotating from scenes of their queen sobbing into her bathwater with greasy hair strung in every direction to the heartless remarks behind their backs when they so much as spill a drop of wine.

The sun hides behind a shroud as if afraid to embrace her. She always did say Mitch’s smile was the sun. Her world is bathed in darkness without him.

Within the contents of the letter, Matthews’ words offer nothing more than an intricate spider web of deceiving taunts. They promise her that her son is safe and cared for when she knows he is quarantined in the prince’s bedroom, beating against the door with his fists. Matthews talks like a seasoned veteran wearing years of blood like a dress when in fact, it is the makeup of deception for the face of the child. He signs it with an invitation to bless their marriage in person at his ancestral palace.

When the handmaiden states those words exactly, she strikes her hand out and demands they burn the letter and any accompanying trinkets. She watches the coyote howl in pain as the remnants go up in smoke.

The choice is obvious. She will penetrate the source of the darkness and bring her son home. Mitch is her baby boy: he needs nourishment, not trickery to take to bed. Matthews’ cannot and will not gives him what he needs to grow. All of his so-called “love” will ricochet off her boy and the shrapnel of Matthews words will pierce his skin. If she does not move in haste, it may be too late.

Arizona’s unfortunate location poses more difficulties than imagined. Her entourage insists on making a good first impression with the dining, entertainment, and gifts. She scraps their ideas into the gutter. She will show no hospitality.

 

The people of Arizona are unfathomably putrid and do not bother with being discreet. At heart, they are heathens and she treats them as such from the moment of arrival. They would bleed her dry for coin. Why she should believe such a skin and bones nation should offer her son anything but misery is beyond her. The people are just like their ruler: selfish, egotistical, and sour.

How Mitch could leave their verdant green pastures for a land so hostile and barren alludes her. Here, the stubby trees thirst for so much as a driblet of fluid. Man-made rivers are what sustains the local population and the archaic technology of the shaduf and public sewer systems make her faint with worry. These people put their own pleasure above the machinery of their land. Their trade of spices has made them fat and obsolete, complacent to the pleasures of humanity.

She passes the lodging and stables for merchants thrice on her passage to the palace. Stadiums constructed from marble stand tall and boast a wide collection of folks betting on horse races. The stallions they mount are nimble, tails strung high like the bearing rein designed to put a strain on the poor creatures. All around her melts a pot of noise.

The docking provides transport for the ships exporting spices. Sand dresses the dunes like the boiled cocoons of insect larvae whose spunk silk are threaded into fabric. The cavalry congregates with all the subtlety of manure, with melee weapons armed at every outpost. It alarms her as much as it inspires a feeling of dread. She is nowhere near capable of fighting these men alone.

If what Connor says is true and Mitch gifted his virginity to Matthews on a silver platter, John will see no use in helping her. Why fight for touched goods? Unluckily for Matthews, raped or not, her son is hers. Always will be. She will fight until death to bring him home.

She storms the castle on the landmark of Phoenix with a fiery temperament. She does not recognize woman seated on the throne but does not stop. She barks out Matthews’ name in hopes it will bring her enemy to her.

The woman waits for translation from the mediator. The revelation of Bonnie’s intention appears to console her. She’s been expecting this visitor. Suddenly, Bonnie’s anger is warranted. These people know they do wrong by her and continue doing so. They welcome her knowing each step needles a pain in her.

Matthews takes his sweet time. The summons come and they lie in wait for his presence to grace them. Bonnie feels the shoulder of her gown slip and chooses not to fix it. She will not give him the understanding of an old, ripened queen. She will force the man to confront the agony he has caused.

In time, Matthews does come. One look at Bonnie’s appearance as his lips twist. Looking at her is like touching a bruise. The unwanted baggage fills the room, constricting her lungs. She’s come so far, grieved so much: she doesn’t even know what she will say.

She settles for an easy, “how dare you?” It voices many concerns in one. For a prince to think he has the right to kidnap another, to not first get the parent’s consent nor court the man proper is ludicrous.

“Pardon?” Matthews says because Bonnie spoke the words too low.

“Where is my son, you bastard!” The guards separating the imaginary line between her and Matthews reach for their weaponry at her raised tone.

Matthews does not appear worried.

“Calm yourself Bonnie, he is safe.”

“Do not call me Bonnie. Release my son to me at once!”

There’s a trunk inside of her throat that contains threats and compromises galore. They all anticipate that upon hearing her request Matthews will laugh and turn away. She expects Matthews will hide his prize until her boy shows, but the opposite is true.

Matthews steps aside. “Very well. Wait here please.”

She blinks. The trunk snaps shut and locks. The confirmation ceases all the swears she’d conjured up in preparation for a fight. All of the anger bleeds from her. She cannot tourniquet the wound. It oozes in a thick stream until it leaves behind the shell of a woman.

And then, as if magic, there he is.

Mitch elopes from the chambers with a golden crow located on the top of his brow and a translucent sheet draped over his eyes. It looks like a wedding veil, albeit designed with fashion in mind, not practicality. There are little rhinestones embedded in the thin fabric and they twist around Mitch’s hooked nose with each step he takes.

The veil is heavy enough to hide the protruding features. If a stranger were to encounter him on the sanded roads, they would not recognize him. Matthews has taken her son’s face and disguised it with glimmer. She only knows because it’s the face she gave birth to, nursed, and raised.

It’s not only the veil that deceives her but the whole ensemble. He wears form-fitting attire, paved in sanguine red colours. It’s nothing like the virginal garbs she would dress him in.

“Mother,” Mitch greets. His voice is forged like an old blade, rusty in the exterior with a cutting bite that could sink its teeth into an unwilling participant. There is no missing how his eyes slit.

“My baby,” she responds, a whine shrieking through her throat. “What has he done to you?”

“Auston is responsible for my abduction from the London crown. It abdicates my birthright. I can never go home.” His words release a drawstring of tension. They are practiced. Rehearsed. They are not true.

Bonnie works to reassure him. She plays the part of the mother. “You can always come home, my dear.”

Mitch slides his head to the side, disconnecting eye contact.

“I cannot rule without prejudice. I cannot marry into another line. I cannot so much as speak with foreign dignitaries without risking my position. I am the equivalent of a divorcee, part of an annulled marriage.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mother. I can not go home.” He packs force in his words.

“Matthews cannot keep you from me. I will wage war. I will slice his head from his body, I will--”

“Mother. I will not go home. I am staying here.”

The first tears bud in her eyes. “Please, do not tell me you are happy here, without me, Connor, and Dylan and all of your friends back home.”

“No. Yes,” he shakes his head, “there is no simple answer to that question. I long for my family back in London and my place on the throne. I experience new creatures and sights each day but how can I possibly rule over a kingdom I know nothing about? I was not baptized here nor sliced my arm on the rocks as a child; I nary scoured the town for delicacies when my mother was asleep nor feed from her breast in the hot sun. I am a stranger.”

It’s something to nibble at. Bonnie ravages the throwaway words for doubt to latch on to.

“You are not alone,” she laughs to herself, “I felt the same when I was married to your father. London was a brittle land with little people and no hope. The cattle were struck by sickness the first moon I ruled over and pestilence ravaged the crops.

She slips both of her hands under the veil and onto the apples of Mitch’s cheeks to realign his head back to her. “I always remembered I had power though, that I could make a decision. I ruled over our lands and turned it into a queenship. Come home and we will right this wrong,” she says.

“I understand, but you cannot say I would be happier with Tavares.” Bonnie opens her mouth, but Mitch speaks first. “No. You can not say that, because I would not be. Auston treats me well. He washes my feet and brings me breakfast as soon as the sun lights the sky. He kisses me gently and does not go where he is not wanted.” His chest begins to heave. “He humours me, does not treat me like a child. In that way, he is different. You never thought he was worthy, but I did. I said yes to him because I knew you would not like it.”

Bonnie’s eyes are wet. Her lips crack. She smells like horsehide and manure.

“I refuse to stand by and watch you run yourself into ruin,” she replies. “To sell yourself into servitude to that,” she smashes her teeth together, “that _beast!_ I would rather have you die alone than live with a selfish partner. That is why I chose John for you.”

Mitch removes her hands from his face. “Mother, I love you. I always will, but Tavares was your decision. He was not mine. Auston is mine.”

“He does not own you. Come home, please.”

“I love him. I live in Arizona now. You are welcome to visit but not if you threaten my husband.”

 _Husband_ burns a hole through her stomach like snake venom. She searches for words.

“But why did you not tell me? I would do anything for you, my child. I should not have to grovel at his feet for an audience with you.”

“Because you never listened!” he yells, and it is a foreign sensation. “I feared you would wave off my complaints and continue on your way as you always do. I was property to you, always was. My room contained more dolls than a child’s bedroom because you baby me so. Here, I am a king. People respect me as an equal to Auston, not his pet.”

She shakes. “Mitch, I loved you and I apologize if that love made me appear careless but,” she grabs onto his arm and holds tight, “I cannot live without you.”

Mitch barks out a cruel laugh. “Mother, that is the problem. You live through me. Perhaps if things were different I may consider but this is the life I have chosen. It is the life I want.”

Matthews emerges from the vat of silky red curtains and fastens an arm around his husband’s chest. It is a possessive mark, a declaration of the power he holds over his head. Bonnie could spin tales of war at his doorstep but the damage done by Matthews’ poison could not be understated. Even if she forcibly took her son home, he would resent her forever.

“Goodbye, mother. Come again soon,” Mitch says. It’s so much alike the greetings they shared at home when she would kiss his forehead before bed. Now, she wants to scrape the words out from where they rot in her ears' flabs of skin. They jangle insults that strip her of what little power she has.

 

Outside, Bonnie wails and beats the earth, which isn’t so much earth as it is a velvety ripple of sand. She raises her hands and the little beads fall between the spaces of her fingers like mist over the haunches of the riverbed.

They slip away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my THIRD royal AU so don't worry guys I'm stopping here. This story was originally supposed to be written after Don't Shoot the Messenger and then I forgot about it for a whole year. Well, I'm back reviving the classics. I guess you can see why I didn't want two kidnapping fics in a row. Sorry Mitch.
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr! i answer asks, post art for fics, and post mini-stories and/or behind the scenes action.


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